Dragon's Tongue
by FloatingSeaweed
Summary: A story of the family behind the Dragonborn.


As I lay beside my husband, waiting for sleep to take its hold, I couldn't help but wonder why, out of all of the men in Tamriel, I had chosen to marry him? Was it because he ran that errand for me? How pathetic—a young, unmarried man helps me out and suddenly I felt the need to throw myself on him, begging him to whisk me away to Riften to the Temple of Mara. I sincerely hoped that that wasn't the reason. Was it because he was the Dragonborn? Was I enchanted with the idea of loving this legendary hero, so enchanted that I abandoned all of my hopes and dreams? That theory was also thoroughly depressing. He wasn't beautiful, he wasn't kind, he wasn't clever, he wasn't charming. All this man could do was speak the dragon tongue. And with that dragon tongue he had ensnared me.

I was so happy in Whiterun. It was lively, friendly, bustling—full of splendor and noise. My days were spent walking among the market stalls and conversing with the vendors, who knew me by name and face. I never had to worry about anything. And then one day this stranger—this _adventurer_—waltzes up to me in the middle of the market and strikes up a conversation. He seemed pleasant enough, so I asked him to help in acquiring a mammoth tusk. Of course I could do it myself, but this man traveled enough that it would be simple for him to grab one on one of his journeys.

The mammoth tusk was in my hands two days later, and we were engaged. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. I was going to be married to the Dragonborn. I knew of many, many young ladies who would gladly be in my position, but no—little old Ysolda was set to be the wife of Skyrim's hero. I caught a carriage to Riften and the ceremony was carried out the next day.

And I never saw Whiterun again. I was sequestered in this house in the middle of Falkreath. The only signs of civilization around it was a small farmhouse that I was fairly certain was owned by bandits. My dreams of being a successful trader were smashed, and I was prepared to settle for a domestic life, but that too was taken from me. For the first month I was alone in that divines-blasted structure with his Redguard housecarl gifted to him by the Jarl of Falkreath. The woman barely talked, and when she did say something, it was always in praise of her thane. Needless to say I did not particularly enjoy her company. And my _love _would pop in every so often to drop off a few items he had picked up and to request that I cook him a meal. Did he ever ask how I was doing? No. Did he ever ask if I was happy? No. If I was lucky he would inquire about how much money the store I had opened had made, and even then he only wanted to know so that he could claim his half of it. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that this store was my only source of joy, and that if he wanted a share of the profits he better work for them. But I didn't. He was my husband, but if the Dark Brotherhood armor that he had on display in his armory was any indication, he wouldn't hesitate to kill me.

After the longest month of my life, a child showed up on our front door step carrying nothing but a basket full of flowers. She said her name was Sofie, and that the Dragonborn had met her in Windhelm and said that she could live in his house in Falkreath. I was surprised of course, but I let the girl in without another question. She was so thin, and I shuddered to think of her living alone in that snowy, blustery city with naught but her threadbare dress to keep her warm and a handful of flowers to make her money. I remembered the little orphan girl in Whiterun—Lucia, was her name—and I wondered if she could live here also. I hadn't bothered to ask my husband because I could not see him as the type to enjoy having children underfoot. Not that he was every here.

When he stopped by three days later, I realized that my impression of him had been correct. He ignored Sofie. She asked him to play, and he said he was too busy. She asked him if she could have an allowance to buy a toy, and he said that he couldn't spare any money (even though I knew that he had a safe full of jewels in the storage room). She told him that she found a flower for him, and he coldly accepted it, before tossing it in a barrel. Sofie had been adopted solely for my benefit. Someone to keep my company. I was happy, but also furious. This sweet little girl deserved a father—a real father who would care for her and see her for more than a day a week at best. But I could not tell her to leave, and I could not tell him my feelings on the matter.

I knew that he was a very busy man. He was Harbinger of the Companions after all, and the thane of various holds throughout Skyrim. But I knew for a fact that he hadn't been to Jorvasker in a month, and he didn't stay in one town long enough to truly say that he was a part of it. Sometimes I wondered what it was that he did. He would bring such odd things home—pieces of armor, elaborate masks, rare plants, fantastic weapons. Was he a grave robber? Was he a thief? (He did spend a lot of time in Riften.) But I did not ask, and he did not tell.

Even with Sofie, life was lonely. We truly were in the middle of nowhere. When it was particularly nice out, I would take her down to the lake and go fishing, but those were rare occurrences. I wished that I could do more things with her, but I was terrified to step outside of the house. It seemed like every day we were under attack—giants, wolves, dragons, bandits. All sorts of creatures that wished for nothing more than to rip our throats out. I would take Sofie to the bedroom and hide in the corner, eyes closed, praying to Talos that Rayya would be able to defeat them on her own, and wishing that I was back in Whiterun. Giants and wolves never attacked the city and it was too large for a group of bandits to plunder. The dragons were a different story of course, but I would feel much safer if I knew that the city guards were there to take care of it. Out here we were helpless. Maybe when my husband woke up, I would ask him if he could build us a wall, large enough to keep out wolves and bandits, and with enough room that Sofie could play outside without me worrying. But I knew that he would say no.

Two weeks after Sofie arrived, a bard named Llewellyn took up residence in our home. The music was nice and it was wonderful to talk to him, but I only wished that I could have a loving husband instead of a talkative minstrel. After Llewellyn came a private carriage. Why did we need a private carriage? The Dragonborn was the only one who used it—Rayya and Llewellyn were bound to this house and I knew that if I took it, I would never return.

A month later another orphan arrived on a carriage. Alone. I was furious that my husband thought it was acceptable for such a small child to be traveling alone across the land with dragons and thieves running amok. But I said nothing, merely smiled and welcomed Samuel into our home. Sofie and Samuel loved each other instantly, and they took to playing in the front yard with the wooden swords they had begged their _father_ to get for them. Samuel adored his father—he was convinced that some day he would take to the road and become an adventurer just like him. Whenever I heard this, I felt my smile grow strained and my eyes go cold. But I said nothing. If nothing, I should be happy that my children didn't see their father for what he truly was. I would be content with them blindly idolizing him, and be happy that he wasn't around enough to prove their fantasies wrong.

Three months of marriage and I still had not heard my husband say that he loved me. Not once did he ask about my well-being, or if I was happy being isolated far from my home. A routine was set up—he would stop by, tired, bloody, and dirty, and then he would take his half of my earnings, eat the food he demanded I prepare, and then sleep the night. The next morning he would leave. Once in a while he would bring someone with him, sometimes a Companion, a mercenary he hired in a tavern, a mage from the College of Winterhold, or a jester that sang songs about slitting throats and carried a dagger on his belt. They followed him so blindly, so absolutely, and I pitied them. They saw only the façade of the Dragonborn, the lustrous surface that rode into town on his pitch-black horse and nobly shot dragons out of the sky with his arrows. I saw the person that I had been on my wedding night—thrilled to be associated with this famed man. If only they knew what the people behind the horned helmet had to put up with.

As I watched him sleep, armor still on his body, dying our sheets with grime and dried blood, I wished that I had a strong enough will to leave him. To tell Sofie and Samuel to pack their bags and to take the carriage to a town, any town. But I knew that if he wanted to, he would find us. The _mighty Dragonborn_ was respected in every settlement in Skyrim. All he had to do was let out a whisper about how he wanted to know where Ysolda, Samuel, and Sofie lived, and he would have hundreds of sources pointing to us. He would find us, and bring us back to this lonely house. I looked at him, and wondered if he would even bother to search. Would he miss us? Would he even notice that I wasn't there to welcome him home, that Samuel wasn't there to request a game of tag, that Sofie wasn't there to press a dragon's tongue into his calloused hand? I doubted it, and if he did notice, I doubted that he would care. And if he did care, the entire force of Skyrim would be behind him. No one would bother to wonder why the wife of the Dragonborn had run away—she was probably just insane. The Jarls made him their thane, the Companions would run in front of flaming arrows for him, the Thieves Guild would steal the emperor's crown for his glory, the Blades would massacre thousands of dragons in his name, the soldiers would follow his orders off of the cliff at the Throat of the World, the Dark Brotherhood would slither through the windows of the High King himself—all for the Dragonborn. For he had ensnared them with his dragon's tongue.


End file.
